From Gotham to Dunwich
by Arthur Delapore
Summary: Bruce Wayne a.k.a. Batman meets Lovecraftian terrors outside of Gotham when he learns that Dr. Jonathan Crane and Wilbur Whateley have joined up to call down dark forces from other worlds. CHAPTER NINETEEN IS NOW UP
1. The Arrival of Wilbur

From Gotham to Dunwich

Episode One: The Arrival of Wilbur

"Someone is here to see you, Dr. Crane," Nurse Stevens told the learned psychiatrist as he sat in his office reading the _Arkham Advertiser_.

"Oh, who is it?" Dr. Jonathan Crane inquired. He was a thin, gangly—and surprisingly young man, for the head of an asylum. His carefully combed black hair and neatly pressed white shirt enhanced his air of professionalism, but his cold blue eyes betrayed a certain sardonic, calculating element to his personality.

"The man's name is Wilbur Whateley, doctor," Nurse Stevens replied.

Dr. Crane stiffened at the name. "Send him away," he said curtly.

At that moment, a hulking figure towered in the doorway, a good few feet higher than Nurse Stevens.

"What's wrong, John?" a deep, bass voice filled the room; a voice familiar to Dr. Crane. "Don't you want to meet your childhood friend?"

Jonathan Crane sighed; half with resignation and half with amusement. "Very well, come in," he said, leaning back in his chair and setting the paper down on his desk."

"Still reading the _Arkham Advertiser_, eh?" Wilbur grinned at him as he seated himself opposite the psychiatrist.

"Interesting reading material," Dr. Crane said icily. "Particularly about that fellow Herbert West and his colleague James Harkness. They're researching re-animation of the dead, I hear."

"Well, let them research," Wilbur muttered. "I didn't come here to Gotham to reminisce, however, dear doctor John."

"Well, then what _did _you come here for?" Dr. Crane asked calmly.

Wilbur Whateley leaned forward. "I want you to help me," he whispered.

"Help you do what?" Dr. Crane asked, beginning to get a little impatient.

"Help me find my father," Wilbur's grin suddenly seemed frightful to the young psychiatrist.

"Your father?" he said, a little breathlessly.

"You know who he is?" Wilbur said, still with that same leer.

"I think I do," Jonathan Crane said uneasily.

"Well, then, you know what we have to do, then!" Wilbur rose.

"What do you need me for?" Dr. Crane suddenly asked with a slight smile.

Wilbur grasped his wrist and lead him out of the office towards the front door. "For that handy Fear Gas you invented, John! Because I have a feeling that fool Batman is going to test his powers against me. And because I have a feeling that I know a way to enhance your Fear Gas even further."

But Jonathan Crane wasn't listening. At the name of Batman, his haunting blue eyes had frozen into a look of coldly intense and utter, devastating vengeance. "I'll go with you," he said finally.

"Don't worry, pal!" Wilbur grinned again. "We'll show that vigilante a thing or two! If he thinks that Gotham is bad, wait 'till he sees Dunwich!"

The two friends burst into sinister laughter as they left Arkham Asylum.


	2. A Joint Venture to Dunwich

Episode Two: A Joint Venture to Dunwich

"Yes, sir, I think a vacation would be a good idea for both of us," Alfred advised.

Bruce Wayne glared. He had the definite feeling that his butler and his friend were teaming up on him.

"Look, Harley," he said. "Why are so keen on going to Dunwich in the first place? Is it just because of this suspicion you have about this fellow named Wilbur?"

Harley Warren smiled cryptically. He was a slight young man with dark wistful eyes, and a soft, light voice with a hint of cold, delicate irony. Bruce Wayne had known him briefly in high school, and he had run into him in Gotham and invited him to his mansion so that they could re-acquaint themselves with each other. However, the conversation had begun to deteriorate into Alfred (Bruce Wayne's butler) and Warren attempting to talk him into staying in Dunwich for a while.

"I think I'd rather like to head to New England for a while, sir," Alfred continued. He had been saying variations on this same sentiment for the last half-hour while Warren continued to add more remarks that simply fueled Alfred's fervor.

Bruce Wayne finally threw up his hands. "All right, all right, you win!" he groaned as Warren smiled. "We'll go to Dunwich. Alfred, you pack your stuff and I'll get my own things. But where exactly will we stay?"

"There are some inns in Dunwich," Warren said reassuringly. "They aren't quite up to urban hotel standards, but—"

"But they're probably as cozy as a nice bed-and-breakfast!" Alfred interjected hastily.

Bruce Wayne glowered. "Well, we'll see," he said. "I'm only doing this because of you two. Personally, I don't know whether this vacation will do me much good."

"I certainly am glad you changed your mind," Warren said crisply. "When will we leave?"

"I think by tonight we should be ready, sir!" Alfred called from upstairs.

"You sure have gotten Alfred excited," Bruce grumbled, and then grinned in spite himself. "All right, tonight we leave! I guess you'll have to get your things packed, though, won't you?"

"I already have them packed in my car outside," Warren replied.

Bruce frowned. "You were pretty sure you had me talked into this trip, weren't you?"

His friend's strange smile returned. "Well, I certainly hoped I did, anyway!" he said slyly.


	3. The Arrival

Episode Three: The Arrival

And so, for a good part of the day, Bruce Wayne found himself driving down the highway from Gotham towards Massachusetts.

"So exactly in what part of Massachusetts is Dunwich?" Bruce asked Warren as Alfred steered the car down the highway. It was midnight and there were few cars on the road besides their own.

"It's around Essex County," Warren replied. "You know, around the northeastern part of Massachusetts. But it's further inland than, say, Salem."

"And this fellow named Wilbur," Bruce persisted. "Who is he? And why are you so interested in him?"

"I'm not, really," Warren protested. "I just met him once when I was a boy and I thought it would be interesting to see him again."

Warren's gentle smile did nothing to ease Bruce's suspicions. However, he decided to keep his thoughts to himself, for the time being. Knowing Harley Warren, whatever was going on was bound to come out…eventually.

In the meantime, Bruce glanced at the map of New England that he had spread out across his lap.

"Where are we now, Alfred?" he asked.

"Er, we're pretty near Dunwich, sir," Alfred replied from the driver's seat. "We're on the Aylesbury Pike at this moment. We should be—"

He stopped when he saw that they had passed a soiled, lopsided sign that bore the words WELCOME TO DUNWICH.

"I guess we're there," Bruce said. "And now, my dear friend: where are we going to be staying?"

Warren appeared untroubled, despite Bruce's sarcasm. "Well, my dear friend," he replied coolly. "Since there's only _one _inn in Dunwich, that's the one we'll be staying at. I think you need to turn left, Alfred," he added quickly.

"And what's this place like?" Bruce wanted to know. His answer, however, was answered a little sooner than he expected—and perhaps a little sooner than he would have liked as well.

For in the light of his car's headlights, Bruce saw before him a two story old mansion (which appeared to have been converted into something like a hotel). It appeared to have been made out of an ancient wood, and as if in answer to Bruce's internal musings, Warren said:

"It's about two hundred years old, I believe. Left over from the Puritan settlements of this area."

"Interesting." Bruce said gruffly. He was not as much a lover of history as his friend. "Well, let's see what the place is like."

Alfred parked the car by the dilapidated dirt road that they had been driving on, and together the three made their way towards the ancient hotel.


	4. The Hotel of Horrors

Episode Four: The Hotel of Horrors

As they made their way towards the hotel, Bruce was able to inspect the hotel more closely. He saw that not only was the place as old as the hills, but it appeared to be falling apart in sections.

"Who takes _care _of this place?" he grumbled.

"Now, look, Master Wayne," Alfred said hastily. "You've only seen the outside. You don't know how the inside is going to look now, do you?"

"It might not be as bad on the inside," Warren suggested cheerfully.

Bruce did not reply, but strode up to the creaky front porch of the hotel and opened the door briskly. He immediately stepped into a room that was almost pitch black with only a guttering candle set on a desk. He saw an old woman poring over a huge book full of hand-written scrawls. And around him, a vast array of moldering, rotting books on moldering, fungus-covered shelves.

"You're right," he muttered. "It's _worse _on the inside!"

Immediately, the old woman looked up and blinked at him with filmy, fish-like eyes. "Who're you?" she asked.

"I am Bruce Wayne, this is Harley Warren, and that's my butler Alfred," Bruce replied.

The old lady tilted her head oddly and scrawled the names down in a thick black ledger. Then she handed Bruce a rather greasy iron key.

"Upstairs, last room to yer left," she drawled and resumed her odd, trance-like mumbling over the huge book that she had been looking at before. Bruce stared at her, but she didn't notice, so he gave up and headed up the stairs, Warren and Alfred following close behind.

"So this is your cozy bed-and-breakfast, eh, Alfred?" Bruce muttered irritably.

"Ah, well, maybe the rest of the town will be a little more up to date, sir," Alfred said dubiously.

Harley Warren was the only one who had kept the same air of assured calmness and his same customarily gentle, wary smile.

"We're going to have to share the same room, I suppose," he remarked.

Bruce nodded, but fortunately when they unlocked the door to their room, they saw that there were three narrow beds with sagging mattresses and grimy windows looking out on the craggy hills that surrounded the small New England village.

"Well, good night all," Bruce said, a little sarcastically. "I'm sure this is going to be a swell vacation!"

He collapsed into his bed and sunk about five feet because of the irreparable state of the bedsprings. Groaning, he turned the lights off in the room and tried to get to sleep. Already, Warren had sunk into a deep and heavy slumber.

Bruce did the same and after a half hour of tossing and turning was fast asleep as well.


	5. A Sound in the Night

Episode Five: A Sound in the Night

Bruce woke up at around 11:00 p.m. in the middle of the night to a strange scratching sound that seemed to come from behind the wall. His eyes popped open immediately and he looked around, but all was blackness and shadows. He threw the bedcovers off and groped in the darkness. He didn't find the source of the scratching sound, but he did manage to bang his toe on the edge of an old, sagging dresser and accidentally stumble straight into Harley Warren's bed.

"Sorry," he whispered gruffly as Warren sat up slowly and looked around.

"What's the problem?" Warren asked.

"I thought I heard a weird scratching sound outside," Bruce said dubiously, heading towards one of the nearest walls and tapping its surface. "Probably just rats, though, eh?"

Warren was silent for a moment, and then said, "Most likely."

Bruce flipped on the light switch and glanced around. "Well, sorry for waking you. I guess it's just my nerves."

Suddenly, they both heard voices downstairs.

"Someone else is checking in," Warren whispered.

"At this time of night?" Bruce whispered back in surprise. At the same time, he felt a growing annoyance. "I'm sick of this Nancy Drew routine. Let's check and see who the newcomers are."

Bruce and Warren left Alfred sleeping in the hotel room and crept out into the narrow hallway. Downstairs they heard voices, but they couldn't make out what they were saying.

"Ergh, this is stupid," Bruce groaned. "They're probably just a bunch of losers like us. I'm going back to bed."

He shuffled back to the room. However, Warren lingered in the hallway. He heard the footsteps of the newcomers ascending the steps. And he waited…


	6. The Triumvirate Convenes

Episode Six: The Triumvirate Convenes

Wilbur Whateley and Dr. Jonathan Crane mounted the steps of the rustic hotel. Their room was supposed to be the one right next to the last room on the left down the hallway. However, Dr. Crane noticed a young man standing by the head of the steps watching them silently. His cold, grave eyes seemed to be appraising the two.

Dr. Crane intended to ignore him, but Wilbur Whateley, a good few feet taller than the slight young man, did not follow his friend's tactic.

"Well, if it isn't another visitor over here in Dunwich," Wilbur grinned nastily. "And who are you?"

Harley Warren smiled slightly. "Like you said," he replied thoughtfully. "A visitor to Dunwich."

"And why would I nice young fellow like you want to come to Dunwich?" Wilbur asked.

"What makes you think I'm nice?" Warren returned, still smiling.

This took Wilbur Whateley aback. However, because of his greater size, it was difficult for him to feel too intimidated.

"You sound like an interesting fellow," he said in his drawling rustic New England accent. "How would you like to come with me and my pal and have a drink?"

"It's late," Warren said curtly.

"So what?" Wilbur retorted with another nasty grin. He took Warren by the arm firmly and led him down the hallway towards the room next to Bruce's.

"This is our room," Wilbur explained, fishing out a key from his pocket with his other hand and still keeping a firm grip on the young man. "What's your room, just out of curiosity?"

Warren did not reply. Wilbur forced him into the room, Dr. Crane following, and shut the door.

"Well, here we are," Wilbur said with a grin, looking around at their cramped quarters. "All the comforts of home. And here _you _are," he added, smiling genially at Warren. "Sit down now; you're going to be here with us for a while now."

Warren sat down warily in one of the rickety chairs in the room. Dr. Crane stood by the door, watching the young man with pale, flickering eyes while Wilbur pulled up another chair across from his prisoner and leaned forward. He was no longer smiling.

"I know who ye are," he said, and there was a chilling note to his drawl. "And I know what ye're trying to stop me from doing."

"If I know what you're trying to do, then why do you think I came with you here instead of shouting the hotel down for help?" Warren asked coldly.

"Because you're too smart," Wilbur sneered. "You know that I can kill you in one second. Besides, you also know that here in Dunwich, there aren't too many folks who are willing to help strangers."

"That wasn't the only reason you didn't call for help, though, was it?" Dr. Crane said suddenly. "You didn't call for help because you didn't want us to know that someone _else _is here in Dunwich. Someone by the name of Bruce Wayne?"

Warren's eyes flashed coldly. "If you thought that he was here, you wouldn't have gone to the trouble of kidnapping me," he retorted. "You would have killed us all outright before we had a chance to do anything."

"Ah, but we need you, Mr. Warren," Wilbur put in. "We need your superior knowledge of—er—certain things. Certain books. And not to mention, you are a rather powerful person yourself, aren't you? You're no fool. But you're also no god. I can torture you easily to get what I want."

"What do you want?" Warren asked softly.

"I'll tell you," Wilbur replied…


	7. Bruce's Decision

Episode Seven: Bruce's Decision

Bruce Wayne started up in bed. He was sure this time that he was hearing voices coming from the other side of the wall.

"Alfred," he whispered. "Alfred! Wake up—do you hear anything?"

There was the sound of a snore breaking off and then Bruce heard Alfred say, "Hmm…Master Wayne? Was that you?"

"Do you hear any noises?" Bruce repeated. "Anything coming from the other side of our wall?"

"Sorry, sir, I have my earplugs in," Alfred said. "I can hardly hear you as it is."

Bruce shook his head in impatience and crept over to the other side of the wall himself. There definitely were muffled voices coming from the room next door. Bruce put his ear against the wall and tried to make them out.

"So, dear Warren, how would you like to begin?" Bruce heard a deep voice say with a faint sneering quality. "Would you prefer the rack? Or perhaps some a heated bit of metal? Whatever it takes for you to tell us where the _King in Yellow _is."

Bruce caught his breath. Harley Warren! Had he been captured by someone? He listened more intently, but he couldn't make out the other voice…it was too soft. All he could hear was a sudden sound—like someone inhaling sharply—and then a silence.

Bruce made up his mind. He had to find out what had happened—or _was _happening—to his friend.


	8. The Best Laid Plans

Episode Eight: The Best Laid Plans...

Note: I just want to thank all my reviewers, including Winter Darkmoon and Olympia-mg, for supporting this story! They are obviously very well-informed, too, and I am glad you all caught the Robert W. Chambers reference. Harley Warren himself was a character in another of Lovecraft's stories: _The Statement of Randolph Carter_, which I highly recommend. But--on with _this _story!

As quietly as he could, Bruce crept out of his room and stalked down the hallway towards the adjoining room. He couldn't hear any voices now, which somehow made him all the more fearful. Fingering the gun in his pocket, he slowly tried the doorknob of the hotel room. It was locked, of course.

"Shit," Bruce muttered. He didn't like to admit that he was definitely worried. On the one hand, he wanted to break down the door and find out what was happening to his friend. On the other hand, he didn't want to surprise the villains too much, in case they chose to kill Warren while making their escape. He once again pressed his ear to the door, trying to overhear what was going on, and trying to force himself into a decision.

"Now tell me," he heard the same voice he had heard before. "Tell me where _The King in Yellow_ is, or I'll do it again. And if you make me do it again, it will last a very long time."

Bruce heard that same soft, indistinct voice. He pressed closer to the door. As he did, however, its rickety hinges gave way and the door burst open. And what he saw made him sick with horror and pity. For he saw his poor friend caught up in a horrible mass of tentacles, and--they were sucking the life out of him. Bruce saw that he was nearly unconscious, and his face had taken on a deathly pallor that alarmed Bruce even more.

But what truly sent thrills of dread coursing through him--was the fact that the tentacles belonged to an abnormally tall man--and standing beside the man was a face that Bruce Wayne had hoped he would never see. Those cold blue eyes behind the rimless spectacles--Dr. Jonathan Crane. Scarecrow.

Bruce lost his nerve only for a moment. Then he forced the gun out of his pocket and pointed it at the tentacled man.

"Let him go," he said, pointing the gun straight at the tall man's head. The man gave a sneering grin and said, "And why should I? Ye're not going to shoot me at this kind of close range. For one thing, ye might accidentally blast ye're dear little friend's head off as well as mine. And for another thing, look behind ye."

Bruce wondered what he meant, but before he could reply or react, he felt a burst fog envelope him, and at the same time he felt his sanity leave him. For he knew what this fog was--he had encountered it before, and had not been able to resist it then. It was Dr. Jonathan Crane's greatest invention: the Fear Gas!


	9. Go Oft Awry

Episode Nine: …Go Oft Awry

Note: Thanks Olympia-mg for keeping up with the story! And also—Not Human—glad you like it! Yes, things are starting to get a little tough for Bruce…and here's the next installment!

"Master Wayne, are you all right?"

Slowly…slowly Bruce felt himself regaining his senses. He felt the hard floor beneath him, heard his butler's reassuring voice, and smelled the clammy scent of the Fear Gas still clinging to the air around him. He opened his eyes and looked around.

"Where am I?" he said, starting up. "Where is Warren?"

"They took him, I think, sir," Alfred said gravely. "I only got here just now, and by that time, I think they made off with him. Is he still alive?"

"Yes, I think so," Bruce groaned. His head ached terribly. "Though he won't be alive for much longer, if we don't do something fast."

"What do you mean, Master Wayne?" Alfred asked.

"They're planning on torturing him," Bruce said shortly as he searched the room for any signs of luggage or clues that Wilbur Whateley or Dr. Crane might have accidentally left behind. "Warren's a strong man and I believe he can stand up to torture—that is, he won't tell them what they want to know. But that's the trouble. They'll kill him in the end if he doesn't tell them what they want to know."

"What is it they want to know?" Alfred asked.

"Something about some book called _The King in Yellow_," Bruce shrugged. "Don't ask me what it is-"

"Ah, yes, _The King in Yellow_!" Alfred nodded knowingly.

"What—you know it?" Bruce stared at him.

"Of course I do, sir!" Alfred chuckled. "Some sort of play, I believe. It's said to drive readers mad, though I don't know since I've never read it m'self…"

"That's it, Alfred!" Bruce exclaimed.

"That's what, sir?" Alfred inquired.

"That explains why Crane wants the play!" Bruce explained. "What's his Fear Gas all about? Driving his victims mad. What's this play all about? The same thing! Ah, shit," he muttered. "What are we standing here talking about? We need to chase after those two before they make off with Warren completely!"

"They can't be too hard to find," Alfred mused. "This is a small town after all."

"Unless they decide to _leave _this small town," Bruce reminded him. "Come on, let's get out of here."

* * *

"Would you like anything else with your drink, sir?" the waitress asked politely.

The stranger shook his head and she moved on to another table.

A tall, thin young man with a nervous gait and unsteady, quivering fingers entered the ramshackle roadside diner. When he caught sight of the stranger, his eyes widened and he hurried towards him.

"Warren!" he exclaimed. "Harley Warren! After all these years—what are you doing here in Dunwich?"

Warren glanced at the stammering man with a smile. "Randolph Carter," he said affectionately. "It's good to see you again. Still hanging around decaying old byways and soaking up on antiquity?"

"It's not as much fun as it was in the old days," Carter said, shaking his head and sitting across the table from Warren. "But—where have you been? Your clothes—you look like you've been in a car crash!"

"Well, in a way I was," Warren said whimsically. "I spent the better part of several minutes in the trunk of a car. I managed to kick the headlines out and—"

"Pick the trunk's lock?" Carter suggested.

"Pick the lock of a moving vehicle?" Warren said in amusement. "Hardly. No, but I managed to attract the attention of a police officer who stopped the car I was in and helped me escape."

"Were your captors—er—captured?" Carter inquired.

"Unfortunately, no," Warren replied. "They escaped and left the police officer unconscious. I've been spending the last few hours driving him to a hospital, before I finally stopped here. In a minute I'm going to head back to Dunwich to see what's become of a pal of mine."

Randolph gaped at his friend. "Dear me—if you aren't rigging up an expedition to an eldritch swamp, you're escaping from a locked trunk! Who have you gotten in trouble with _this _time?"

Warren smiled wryly. "You'll probably find out soon enough. We'd better leave now."


	10. Big Cypress Swamp And After

Episode Ten: Big Cypress Swamp…And After

Note: This next chapter has quite a lot of references to Lovecraft's story _The Statement of Randolph Carter_, which is—believe me—worth reading. It's a very short tale, but one of Lovecraft's best. You can find it on the Internet through any simple search engine.

I would highly recommend that anyone who has not read the story before should at least skim through it, because as I said, a lot of the references in this chapter are taken from that particular tale. Another Lovecraft tale (and a better known one) called _The Outsider _has elements that are briefly mentioned here, but it is not necessary for one to read it to get the gist of this chapter, though it is a wonderful tale itself and also available on the Internet.

And now, on with the story!

* * *

"So tell me, Warren," Carter remarked as he and his friend speeded down the Aylesbury Pike towards Dunwich in a beat-up old car. "When we went on that last trip to Big Cypress Swamp down in Florida, well…when you went down in that crypt with that creepy book of yours, I was under the impression that you died down there."

"Well, of course you were," Warren said coldly. "You swooned, if I remember correctly, and woke up in a police station."

"That's right…" Carter said uneasily. "How did you find out all this?"

"You wrote it all down in your statement to the police, remember?" Warren reminded him.

"But that—thing—it _said _you were dead," Carter whispered.

"Well, you know what?" Warren smiled gently. "I _was _dead!" He deliberately smiled sneeringly at Carter as Carter's teeth began to chatter audibly.

"Y-you know, this isn't funny at all, Warren," Carter gulped. "Why don't you just t-tell me what you're talking about!"

"But I'm telling you the truth!" Warren replied.

"Then you're a –ghost!" Carter stared pop-eyed at his friend's smiling countenance.

"Well…not anymore," Warren reassured him. "But for a while there, yes, I was 'riding the night-winds', feasting with ghouls, and occupying my time with other such midnight pastimes. I think those creatures—the Old Ones—wanted me out of the way. So they destroyed my memory and turned me into an outsider among the living."

"Then—how did you come back?" Carter asked.

"I happened to find that old book of mine that I brought with me when I went into that crypt," Warren said thoughtfully. "And then, somehow it all came back to me and I found myself back in my home at South Carolina—no longer an un-dead creature."

"And now you're back to your old delvings again," Carter said dubiously.

"Carter, you don't understand yet why it is important that we stop Wilbur Whateley and Dr. Crane," Warren said gravely. "They're trying to find _The King in Yellow_, and we must stop them, but that's not the worst that they plan on doing."

"What is the worst?" Carter asked in a hushed voice.

"I hope that we'll never have to know for sure," Warren replied. "But I have an idea…"

* * *

Bruce Wayne swore. "We've been driving for an hour and I don't see a sign of Crane's car or Warren," he muttered. "I think they've gotten away."

"We should think about where they would plan on going, sir," Alfred reminded him. "You said that Dr. Crane is looking for _The King in Yellow_."

"That's right," Bruce agreed.

"Well, sir, if I remember correctly, there's a copy of _The King in Yellow _in the Miskatonic University's private collections in Arkham," Alfred declared. "They might have gone there."

"Miskatonic University?" Bruce repeated. "Never heard of the place."

"It's not very well know, Master Wayne," Alfred admitted. "But they are rather famous around this part of the country for their library. I believe we should make our way over there before giving up on your friend."

"That's a good idea, Alfred," Bruce said. "Just tell me how to get to this place called Arkham."

* * *

"Our tail lights are ruined, you know," Wilbur Whateley remarked.

"I know," Dr. Crane returned. "That fool escaped us."

"He only got lucky that time," Wilbur muttered. "If that copper hadn't happened to have been behind us, he would still be ours."

"We need to find a copy of that play," Dr. Crane said coldly. "We must or part of our mission will fail."

"Hey—you know, I think I know where we can find it," Wilbur exclaimed. "Arkham! The Orne Library at the Miskatonic ought to have it."

"You may be right," Dr. Crane replied, after considering this statement for a moment. "We will go there. But we must find Harley Warren as well, for he is the only one of our pursuers who truly understand what we are after—and why we are after it. Only when we have him will our endeavours meet with success. For how can the world fight against something it barely understands?"


	11. What Led Me To This Town

Episode Eleven: What Led Me To This Town...

_Note: I'm so glad you're enjoying this, Not Human! And yes, Lovecraft's story is stark perfection to me -- the model of the perfect horror tale. Glad you enjoyed it! And Guess Who...I'm glad you stopped by to read this. There is something extra-dimensionally neat about Wilbur Whateley isn't there? (sorry a _Dunwich Horror _in-joke_)

The winter sunset, flaming beyond spires  
And chimneys half-detached from this dull sphere,  
Opens great gates to some forgotten year  
Of elder splendours and divine desires.  
Expectant wonders burn in those rich fires,  
Adventure-fraught, and not untinged with fear;  
A row of sphinxes where the way leads clear  
Toward walls and turrets quivering to far lyres.

It is the land where beauty's meaning flowers;  
Where every unplaced memory has a source;  
Where the great river Time begins its course  
Down the vast void in starlit streams of hours.  
Dreams bring us close - but ancient lore repeats  
That human tread has never soiled these streets.

--from H.P. Lovecraft's Fungi From Yuggoth

Arkham -- no matter what others may say of it -- is a lovely town. At twilight in particular, I have seen the stars and moon rise over the sea, above the gambrel roofs and white steeples. However, when Bruce Wayne and Alfred reached Arkham's streets, they did not have the time to pause and admire the antique beauty. But Randolph Carter and Harley Warren, on the other hand were different; the former, an admirer of colonial architecture, the latter a connoisseur of weird beauty, and both faithful lovers of antiquity. Thus, feeling that they were at their leisure for the moment, they strolled down the cobbled, narrow streets of Arkham.

They seemed an odd pair. Randolph Carter, a tall, thin, middle-aged man with a quivering, nervous gait; Harley Warren, a younger, slighter man with a gentle, wary assurance in his demeanour. On Carter's face was an expression of nervous anxiousness; on Warren's was an expression of cold determination, contrasted poignantly with a charming wistfulness.

"Where shall we go?" Carter murmured. Twilight was falling over the narrow streets of Arkham, and he was beginning to feel an unease creep over him.

"If that innkeeper in Dunwich told us the truth, Bruce and Alfred should be in this town somewhere," Warren mused, glancing as he spoke at the darkening sky. "I had hoped that we would run into them, but…"

"Why would they have come to Arkham?" Carter shuddered.

Warren smiled. "I'd guess they were tracking Wilbur Whateley and Dr. Crane," he replied. "The question, then, is why _they _would come to Arkham."

"This town is a magnet for trouble," Carter shifted his glance from the nearby wharves to the cramped alleys nearby. "Surely, Warren, we're not going to roam these streets at this time of night! This is the bad part of town!"

"Is there a good part?" Warren said wryly. "But you're right, it's not safe. Why don't you take a cab and find a hotel for us? I'll meet you as soon as I can."

"And what will you do? Explore these streets yourself?" Carter exclaimed.

"Of course," Warren replied.

Despite Carter's customarily shaky countenance, he drew himself up and declared, "There is no way in which you can convince me to forsake you as I did in Big Cypress Swamp. If there is something in these streets, we should face them together like comrades!"

He expected his friend to argue, but instead Warren looked at him with a new respect. "Well, let's go then," he said, and they entered the narrow labyrinthine alleyways before them.

Carter could hear the pattering of fleeing rats as they walked forward under the sagging, decrepit buildings that surrounded them. "Where are we going?" he whispered.

"There is an antique bookshop down this street," Warren replied, his eyes straining in the darkness. "I believe it may have something we're searching for."

Carter noticed a shadow move in front of them; he wondered if it was his imagination, or whether there was some stranger behind them.

"What street are we on?" he muttered.

"Don't none of you move!" a hoarse voice whispered behind them. They both turned to see a grizzled man with a knife in his hand. "Don't move!" he repeated, his eyes darting at them both.

"What—do you want?" Carter whispered, stepping back.

The man saw him move and immediately made a lunge at him with the knife. A gun shot shattered the silence of the night and Carter saw the man freeze with a look of baffled horror, before he slumped to the ground, dead. Carter turned to see Warren holding a smoking shotgun, a grim look in his eyes.

"I carried this under my coat," he explained as Carter stared in surprise. He glanced down at the dead man. "We'll have to call the police about this before we do anything else."

Carter nodded numbly. Out of the shadows ahead of them, a stooped old man with a long white beard, leaning on a cane, nodded at them.

"Good thing you stood up to him," the old man wheezed, chuckling, when he saw Warren with the gun. "That feller has been terrorizin' a lot 'o my customers these last few months."

"Customers?" Carter repeated.

"Aye, I've got m'self a bookshop just down 'ere, but I heard yer pal's gun, so I came to see what was doin'." The old man chuckled. "But I would guess yew two wa'ant comin' ere jest to admire the scenery."

"If we could use a phone in your store to call the police…" Warren glanced at the old man quizzically.

"O' course, come right in, young sirs," the old man chuckled. "It's too cold on these streets for two fellers like you to stay out!"

_Note: Hope you all liked this, for more is to come! I know this is starting to become more a Lovecraftian than Batman fanfic, but that's just the way it's coming out…I plead guilty unfortunately. And, though I doubt anyone will get confused by this chapter, I want to say that this is not slash fiction at all and that the relationship between Warren and Carter is just normal friendship. I wouldn't add this note normally, except that I have come across people who have gotten confused by this sort of thing, and I want to leave no room for doubt. But thanks to everyone who has stuck with this fanfic for so long, and I hope it is holding up well!_


	12. Old Zebediah's Bookshop

Episode Twelve: Old Zebediah's Book Shop

_Note: I'm glad you're keeping up with this story so faithfully, Not Human. And for any who haven't read the Batman Begins fanfic "Lucid Dreamer" by Not Human, I highly recommend this story. Great stuff!_

"Well, looks like a normal case of self defense," the police chief, O' Malley, a fellow with heavy Irish drawl and red hair, patted Warren on the shoulder reassuringly. "I don't think we need to investigate this too closely. I'm just glad that you had a gun so that you could get away from that scum. Lots of folks like that on this side of Arkham—not a safe place."

"We'll try to be more careful," Randolph Carter shuddered as the police officers left the bookshop and trooped back into the ambulance, carrying the corpse of the would-be murderer out on a stretcher.

"Well, why dun't yew two stay in ma bookshop fur a minute an' warm up befur ye go back aout in the cold?" the old man whom they had met before inquired.

Warren smiled gently. "Actually, I was looking for your bookstore before we were attacked by that thief. So, of course we'll come!"  
"Oh, Warren, can't we just leave?" Carter begged.

The old man glanced at them both. "If yew would like to come yerself…" he murmured, glancing at Warren.

"Why don't you ask the police officers to take you back to a hotel?" Warren suggested. "I can meet you there after I look around here."

Carter nodded briskly. "Yes—I think that would be a good idea!"

"Well, hurry, because they're leaving," Warren said, a faint sparkle of amusement in his eyes.

Carter trotted out of the bookshop towards the police car and Warren saw him clamber inside. Then he turned back towards the row of crumbling shelves that lined the inside of the old man's meager store.

"Now…" the old man muttered, rubbing his dry, gnarled hands and glancing at Warren with an avaricious grin. "What sorta book'r ye lookin' for?"

* * *

Carter breathed a sigh of relief once he reached Arkham Hotel. He went inside, rented the fifteenth room on the second floor from a nice, _normal _receptionist behind a desk, and hurried upstairs in the hopes that he could get a peaceful rest.

He inserted the key into the lock of the fifteenth room and stepped inside. It was dark and he groped for a light switch. And that was when he saw the writing scrawled on the wall of his room in what looked like red congealing paint. Strange markings: circles, eyes, pentagons, and stars all traced on the wall in hideous interlacing patterns. And in the middle of the whole jumbled mess stood out these words: WE SEE YOU.

Carter fainted.

* * *

"Master Wayne, didn't that fellow who was waiting in line before us mention Harley Warren?" Alfred inquired as he and Bruce mounted the stairway of the Arkham Hotel, hurrying to the second floor.

"What fellow—you mean that gangly, shaking man who had to repeat his name five times before the receptionist could understand him?" Bruce asked. "I wasn't really paying attention to him."

"Well, I certainly heard him say Harley Warren," Alfred said firmly.

"Ah, Alfred, I don't know," Bruce shook his head as they walked down the hallway towards Room 16. "Why would Warren be here? Whateley and Crane still have him—"

Suddenly, the door of Room 15 burst open and the gangly man whom Alfred had spoken of burst out, wild-eyed. "Brandy!" he gasped. "Before I faint once more from the horrors I have recently witnessed!"

Alfred's jaw dropped and Bruce stared at him. "What are you talking about?" he said sourly. "Who are you?"

The man drew himself up. "I am Randolph Carter, my good man! I have come here with Harley Warren and in my room—"

"Wait just a minute!" Bruce interrupted. "Harley Warren is here?"

"Not in this hotel at the moment," Carter replied. "I believe he is in a bookstore called Old Zebediah's Bookshop down on the west side of Arkham. I told him not to stay there, but—"

"We've got to go meet up with him, if he's still there," Bruce grabbed Alfred's arm and they started back down the stairs, Carter trailing nervously behind. "But, sirs, I think we are in grave danger!" he murmured. "_They_ know where we are!"

* * *

"So what kinda book would ye like, young feller?" Old Zebediah inquired as Warren's cold grey eyes scanned the battered shelves of the bookshop.

Warren smiled a little shyly, feeling a bit self-conscious under the old man's expectant stare. "Do you have a book called _The King in Yellow_?" he asked.

Old Zebediah stared at him for a minute longer and then a grin began to appear on the old man's bearded visage. "Sure…" he chuckled. "Just gimme a second to get it down for ye!"


	13. The King in Yellow

Episode Thirteen: The King in Yellow

"Here it is!" Old Zebediah declared, hauling down a thin book with a yellow calfskin cover. The simple words KING IN YELLOW were traced over its wrinkled, peeling surface.

Warren's cold, bright eyes sparkled with anticipation. "How much is it?"

An avaricious look came into the old man's own eyes. He could see that his customer was both young and eager for the book and decided to wring as much money from him as he could. "What about fifty dollars?" he asked.

Warren looked up in surprise. "Fifty dollars?" he repeated. "But—why is it so expensive?"

"It's a hard-to-find book, my boy," Zebediah replied. "Fifty dollars and no less!"

Warren gave the old man a hard look, but pulled a fifty-dollar bill out of his wallet. "There," he said crisply. "Now may I have my book?"

The old man nodded, handing the thin book to Warren. "Good luck with it," he chuckled.

Warren left the bookstore and once more entered the dark, labyrinthine alleys of Arkham's most dangerous section of town. The moon was hidden among the clouds and the only came from the lamposts, which cast an eerie bluish light over the streets. A decided chill had settled over Arkham.

As Warren continued down the lonely street, keeping a wary eye out for any shady sorts who might be about, he became aware of the definite sound of footsteps behind him. He stopped and listened. The footsteps had ceased. He continued down the street at a more quiet, cautious pace and once more he heard the footsteps behind him. This time, he was quite sure they were directly behind him. With every ounce of his being nerved for a surprise attack, he turned swiftly around, drawing out a thin dagger that he carried concealed in his coat.

Immediately when he saw his pursuer, he lowered the knife and smiled with relief.

"Dr. Armitage!" he said. "What are you doing here?"

"Keeping an eye on you, my boy," Dr. Armitage, an elderly man with a white-bearded face and round spectacles, peered back at Warren with a flinty stare. "What's that book you just bought?"

"_The King in Yellow_," he replied with a slight smile.

"Just as I thought," Dr. Armitage shook his head. "Always fooling around with matters best left unmessed with. Can't you ever learn your lesson, my boy?"

"You don't understand," Warren replied. "Wilbur Whateley, and an accomplice of his named Dr. Jonathan Crane, is after this book."

Dr. Armitage stared for a moment. "Wilbur Whateley?" he took a pipe out of his pocket and lit it with trembling fingers. "I was sure that—fellow—was dead."

"That's what I thought as well," Warren returned. "However, he's back in Dunwich. I don't know where he is at the moment, but I would guess that he'll come here to Arkham."

"Why do you say that?" Dr. Armitage asked.

"He's after _The King in Yellow_, just like he was after the _Necronomicon_ last time," Warren replied. "And like last time, he'll come to the Miskatonic University and try and check out the _King in Yellow_."

"We must stop him," Dr. Armitage said in a low voice.

"No, we mustn't," Warren said. "We should, in fact, give it to him without any argument at all."

"Are you mad?" Dr. Armitage demanded. "Heaven knows what he'll do with it!"

Warren gazed at Dr. Armitage and then a slow, cold smile came over his face. "Don't worry, sir—I have a plan."

* * *

The beat-up jalopy with the missing taillights bounced and rumbled its way into Arkham. Wilbur Whateley scanned his Lonely Planet guide to Arkham.

"The Arkham Hotel should be down this street," he told Dr. Crane. "Turn right. Dang it—you missed our turn!"

"I can't stand your back seat driving any more," Dr. Crane said shortly. "Why don't you try driving?"

"Because I don't _have legs_, that's why," Wilbur retorted. "Now turn around. You're getting me even more mixed up than I was before."

"You simply need to learn how to read road maps," Dr. Crane said patiently.

Wilbur took out his battered copy of Dr. John Dee's lacking translation of the _Necronomicon_, and paged through the worn leaves of the book.

"Spell for reaching a certain destination in no space of time at all," he read. "By mighty Yig, I hope that Dr. Dee was translating his Latin accurately when he wrote that. There's no telling what amount of trouble I could get us into if this is the wrong spell."

"What are you talking about?" Dr. Crane asked. "Are you still looking at the road map?"

"Just a minute," Wilbur muttered a few choice words under his breath and then turned his attention back to the _Necronomicon. _"_Innominandium sim veritas_. By the mighty name of Yog-Sothoth, I say—bring us to Arkham Hotel straightaway! _Veni vidi vici!_"

An ear-blasting crack shook the car and Wilbur blinked in the gathering billows of black smoke. As the smoke cleared, he saw that they were in front of an imposing building called…Arkham Hotel!

"Ha—for once, some good fortune!" Wilbur declared, as he and Dr. Crane stepped out of the car. A uniformed attendant came up to them.

"Look, bud, you better move that hunk of junk out of the fire truck lane, or we'll have to haul it out for you," the attendant said tersely.

Wilbur smirked. "Fine!" he snapped his fingers and muttered a Latin word or two inconspicuously and immediately the car vanished.

"Where did it go?" Dr. Crane demanded.

Wilbur frowned. "I don't know…" he looked about in puzzlement. "I thought I told it to go to the parking lot…"

Dr. Crane snatched the _Necronomicon _from Wilbur and scanned the Latin words. "_Infilimis wortlim_ is High Latin for 'junk heap'!" he exclaimed.

Wilbur stared at the book. "How could they have junk heaps back then?"

Dr. Crane struggled to control himself and turned to the attendant. "Could you tell us how far the city dump is?"


	14. The Talented Mr Whateley

Episode Fourteen: The Talented Mr. Whateley

Lucy, an attractive young woman with blonde hair, unlocked the door of the Orne Library as she did every weekday morning at six in the morning. She attached a librarian pin on the left breast of her shirt, sat behind a desk in the librarian's office, and began fixing her lipstick with a compact from her pocketbook.

After only a few minutes, she heard someone come into the library. However, she didn't notice who it was. She put her compact down on the desk in front of her and began reading a magazine. A half hour seemed to go by and she was absorbed in her reading when she heard a hollow voice say, "Pardon, miss—can I take a look at a sartain book called the _Necronomicon_?"

She lowered the magazine and looked up. The person before her was an unusually tall man with a thin goatish face, long broad fingers, and a bulky overcoat.

"Let me check upstairs in the special collections department," she said after a moment's hesitation.

The strange man nodded and waited by the counter as she left and went upstairs to the special collections. After a minute, she came back.

"I'm sorry—someone else is looking at that book right now," she told him.

The man froze and looked at her oddly. "How many people check that book out at six in the morning around here?"

She shrugged. "You can wait around here until if he's done, if you like."

She started to look back at her magazine when she noticed that his eyes were still on her. Almost unwillingly, she looked up again and met his glance.

"I—are you looking for—something else?" she asked. She felt that her voice sounded faraway.

The man smiled leeringly and leaned forward across the counter. His face seemed uncomfortably near.

"That's all right," he murmured. "About that book, I mean. I happen to have it already. But do you have a book called _The King in Yellow_?"

"It's—upstairs," she said with some difficulty. She felt as though she was under a mesmerist's control.

"Thank you, that's all I needed to know," he said. Then he broke into a smile that somehow did not seem possible on a human face. "I like you a lot more than that fussy old Dr. Armitage. You're a lot prettier, too." He leaned closer. "What's your name?"

"Lucy Phillips," she said distantly.

His smile was thin as if he was pondering something. "I have business upstairs. It was nice meeting you, darling." With a wink, he turned away from the counter and headed up the winding staircase to the second floor, which held the Miskatonic's famed Special Collection.

However, he did not meet with immediate success. As he scanned the shelves of the Special Collection's grimoire section, he found no copy of _The King in Yellow_. He bent closer to the bookshelves, frustrated, but it was true: there was no copy.

"Perhaps you should try looking in the 'drama' section," a soft, light voice suggested pleasantly. He looked up to see a slight young man with delicate features, cold grey eyes and a quiet, still smile, leaning against the wall holding a mouldy copy of the dreaded _Necronomicon_.

"Ah, Mr. Warren," the man who was Wilbur Whateley chuckled. "So we meet again. What are you doing with that book?"

"Looking for some light reading," Warren replied. "I take it that you are still searching for _The King in Yellow_."

"That's right," Wilbur replied.

"Well, I'm afraid you're looking in the wrong place," Warren said. "It will probably be in the 'drama' section rather than with the grimoires. It is a play, after all."

"Why, dear Mr. Warren, how remarkably helpful you are being, compared to the way you were last time," Wilbur appraised him. "I think I'll take your advice."

"The drama section is just over there," Warren nodded towards a bookshelf on the far end of the room.

Wilbur raised his eyebrows at this unexpected help, but strode over to the bookshelf that Warren had indicated. And just as Wilbur's young enemy had guessed, _The King in Yellow_ rested among the other plays. Wilbur picked it up and placed it in the folds of his coat. Warren watched but said nothing.

"Don't think that your cooperation will save you," Wilbur said, coming towards him. His attitude was not menacing, but Warren shrank warily away against the wall as Wilbur Whateley neared.

"So how did you know _The King in Yellow_ was a play, my boy?" Wilbur asked genially. He was now barely a foot away from Warren.

"It doesn't matter how I know," Warren replied. "But it's true, isn't it?"

"You are quite right," Wilbur said. "_The King in Yellow_ is not only play, but it is a play that is said to drive its readers mad once they've read it."

"That's the case with a lot of the books around here," Warren observed.

"I've noticed that you have avoided meeting my eyes ever since I came here," Wilbur said. His grin had become a goatish leer now and, with his unnaturally long fingers, he forced Warren's face up until the young man's cold and infinitely bitter eyes met his own.

"You're afraid that I'm going to hypnotize you like I did that girl downstairs," Wilbur mused. "I may have to do just that—if you don't tell me willingly why you have been so mighty helpful to me these last few minutes—and what tricks you're trying to concoct with Dr. Armitage."

Warren gazed with a fixed, calm despair at Wilbur. "Isn't it obvious that it's useless to fight against your kind?"

"Of course it is," Wilbur said. "But what made you realise that?"

"I've been thinking for a while about the past efforts that have been made against you and the creatures from other worlds that you help," Warren replied. "Even our victories are now shown to be failures. Armitage thought he had defeated you and now—here you are."

"Aye—I used one of my handy spells and seeped through the floorboards," Wilbur said. "Armitage thought he'd defeated my brother, too—but he's gittin' all prepared to come down here again too!"

Warren's face, even his lips, turned deathly pale. "Your brother is coming back?"

"Didn't expect that, did you?" Wilbur grinned sneeringly. "Yeah, my brother's on his way—and I imagine that once he gits down here, he'll have a pretty easy time clearin' the world for our kind. He's so…big and all."

Warren remained silent.

"Now don't take it like that," Wilbur tightened his grip on Warren's shoulder while maintaining a friendly air. "After all, it's no more than you said yourself. It's impossible for you humans to fight back. You may as well give it up and enjoy yourselves while you can. Now," Wilbur said in a more business-like tone. "Dr. Crane wants me to bring you back with us. He's says that you're too dangerous to keep loose and I'm inclined to go along with him, since at least I'll have someone new to talk to. I was hoping back there that you'd do one of those faintin' spells that your friend Carter likes to pull all the time. It'd make my job so much easier…but you're not going to do that?"

"I don't think so," Warren said after a moment.

"Well, then I'll make it easy for you," Wilbur returned, and muttered words in the primal Naacal tongue, still gripping his victim's shoulder. As soon as he finished speaking, Warren collapsed on the hard stone floor of the library, in a deep and profound state of unconsciousness. Wilbur looked down at him with something finally akin to pity in his alien eyes.

"It's probably more merciful to leave him like this," he murmured. "Of all the members of your species, you're the one I could start to like. It's a shame we're stuck being enemies, as things are."

He brutally lifted his victim in his preternaturally strong grip and headed towards the stairs.

_Note: Special thanks to GuessWho, for providing invaluable suggestions regarding this story and in particular, regarding Mr. Whateley._


	15. When the Captors Are Shackled

**Episode Fifteen: When the Captors Are the Shackled Ones As Well**

"You know what the damn problem with Warren is?" Bruce was pacing back and forth in the hotel room with Carter, Professor Armitage, and Alfred sitting miserably nearby.

"No, what?" Carter asked.

"He has to do every god-damn thing by himself!" Bruce exploded. "Now where in the hell is he? He should have been here by this time!"

"Why don't I make you a cup of tea, sir?" Alfred suggested.

"It's no use, Alfred," Bruce shook his head. "Obviously, Warren has gotten himself into trouble yet again and we're going to have to try and help him. Carter, how long will it take us to get to the Miskatonic Library from here?"

"Probably about five minutes," Carter said, wringing his fingers nervously.

"Then let's go," Bruce headed out the door and his three companions followed behind.

* * *

"Well, I have to congratulate you on doing a fine job at this, anyhow," Dr. Crane said as he sat in the front seat of the car. "Hurry and put him in the back seat before someone sees. We're lucky it's so early in the morning and that these Arkham folk keep late hours."

Wilbur Whateley deposited Warren in the back seat and said, "That sleeping spell of mine ought to be good for at least several minutes more. In the meantime, I'll go back in there and pick up _The King in Yellow_."

Dr. Crane nodded and Wilbur hurried back inside the Orne Library of the Miskatonic and upstairs to fetch the accursed play. When he was at the checkout counter, he asked Lucy (the librarian's assistant whom he had talked to previously), "I hope that it'll be all right for me to check this out, even though it's from the Special Collections section, eh?"

She smiled at him. "Of course, Mr. Whateley! And, um…how would you like to have lunch with me this afternoon, if you're not too busy?"

Wilbur looked takenaback. He cleared his throat and said, "Pardon me?"

"Don't be shy!" Lucy said a bit wryly. "So…at the Burning Man Pub at two o' clock?"

Wilbur frowned. "I don't think—" he began, but she was already saying: "Wonderful! I'll see you there, then. Now I have to stack some books upstairs so I'd better go."

Before Wilbur could protest, she left the desk and went into a back office. He shouldered _The King in Yellow _under his arm and left, wondering what in Yig's name that wench was talking about.

Never in all either Dr. Crane or Wilbur Whateley's experience had there ever been a more cooperative prisoner than Harley Warren.

"You do realize, Mr. Warren, that as you are the most dangerous obstacle to our plans, we will most likely have to eliminate you after first torturing you gruesomely, right?" Wilbur Whateley inquired dubiously.

Warren smiled in a way that made Wilbur more uncomfortable than one would have expected given their positions. "Rest assured, Mr. Whateley, that I would not be here if I did not intend to be here."

"Is that so?" Wilbur returned sneeringly, raising his hand to perform his sleep-inducing spell. However, Warren merely returned his gaze with one of cold implacability and uttered a word in a tongue that not even Whateley recognized. However, it must have been a potent word, for the spell did not function.

A chill went up Wilbur's anti-human spine and he whispered to Dr. Crane, "I need to talk to you in private."

Dr. Crane nodded and they both got out of the car; Wilbur closed the door and faced the scientist. "I think," he said slowly in his ponderous New England accent. "That we have a bigger problem on our hands then we thought at first."

"What do you mean?" Dr. Crane asked.

Wilbur glanced through the car window as though he was afraid Warren could hear through the closed door and then said, "Have you heard tell of a sorcerer named Haon-Dor?"

Crane frowned and shook his head. Wilbur continued:

"He lived aeons ago in a land called Hyberborea on a planet many astronomical units away from this one. _However_," Wilbur paused. "What I'm gettin' at is that this Warren seems to have quite a bit of his powers. Enough to make me wonder…"

"If he _is _this Haon-Dor?" Crane finished.

Whateley hesitated again. "If not him, then a remote descendant of his…"

"And how dangerous is this to our plans?" Crane persisted.

"Pretty dangerous," Whateley said. "This Haon-Dor was one of the few mortals – albeit antehuman – who was able to challenge the Old Ones and survive. He was a lone force, not really on anybody's side far as I can tell, and always questing for knowledge."

Crane was becoming swiftly impatient with what he saw as Wilbur's vagaries. "So are you saying that there is nothing we can do against him?"

Wilbur's goatish face became crafty. "There's always something you can do against a man, long as he's mortal and Haon-Dor was, though his lifespan was so long it didn't seem so to most. As for Warren, he might or might not be Haon-Dor, but maybe we can convince him to enter into our plans. An intelligent man like him would see the benefits."

"Well, talk to him about it, then," Dr. Crane said. "And in the meantime, we have to leave. Students are starting to pull in here."

At that moment, Wilbur saw the librarian assistant Lucy skipping out of the Orne Library towards them. "What in the hell does _she _want?" Dr. Crane murmured as Wilbur cringed.

"Give me a sec and I'll deal with it," Wilbur said as Lucy reached them.

"What is it you want?" he demanded, his voice gruff and his demeanour one of menace.

"Why, I just wanted to see if you needed help getting your car started," she blushed and looked away. "You and your friend were standing by here so long…"

Dr. Crane looked exasperated. "If we have any automobile trouble, I am sure we can deal with it ourselves," he said unsympathetically.

"Oh, Wilbur, do you think you could walk me to Starbucks?" Lucy asked. "The streets are still pretty deserted and I'd feel safer…" She gave him a sidelong look.

Wilbur didn't see any way out of this situation that wouldn't look suspicious, so he gave in. "Fine," said he. "But I have things to do so be certain this doesn't keep me long."

_A Glance At the Upcoming Chapter: In Which my readers learn of an eldritch date, Warren's ambiguous decision, and more of the cosmically evil plot unfolds. Also, to Guessswho, I hope you are enjoying this romantic element with your favourite Wilbur and also hope to see more of Warren in your own tales. Keep up the good work!_


	16. The Eldritch Date

**Episode Sixteen: The Eldritch Date**

"Well, here ye are," Wilbur said, stopping in front of the coffee shop with Lucy, adding caustically, "Shall I fetch ye a horse-drawn carriage for ye to leave when yer done here, miss?"

She looked at him levelly. "Maybe," she returned. "In the meantime, you look thirsty. Why don't you have something too?"

Wilbur was beginning to realize that until he complied with this woman, she would never let him alone – and he would never get down to business with _The King in Yellow_. Also, he was beginning to have a grudging affection for her, if only for her persistence. So with a short nod of acceptance he followed her, stooping to enter the coffee shop.

"I'd like a frappucino, please," Lucy said to the cashier.

"Um – d-do you want anything as well, sir?" the little man behind the counter was staring at Wilbur who was towering over the rest of the customers; so tall, in fact, that he had to stoop lest his head brush the ceiling.

"No, thank ye, sir," Wilbur said with his goatish smile. After a few minutes' wait, Lucy got her frappucino. She gestured outside:

"Let's find someplace to talk outdoors – it's terribly stuffy in here!"

The coffee shop happened to be close by Meadow Hill. It was rumoured by the Arkham folk that witches in the olden days used to hold their sabbats there until the Puritans, known for their goodness and strength against the wiles of evil, managed to put down for a time the murders and gruesome rites that were performed there. Still, some whispered that those rites had been taken up again, though there was no conclusive evidence against any particular sect.

It was to wooded Meadow Hill, strangely enough, that Lucy headed and by a brook in the shade of the trees she sat, sipping her drink. The shadows that fell across the ground and water as well as the fog made Wilbur slightly drowsy and he was tempted to trail his tentacles in the cool depths of the brook when a sound made him turn. A few yards away, he saw two men approach Lucy. One of them said, "All we want is your wallet. Give it to us, or..."

Lucy's eyes were wide with fright but Wilbur didn't see what the trouble was, for they were both a good few feet shorter than him. He came close to where they stood, for they hadn't noticed him before in the fog,

"Well, and is somethin' troubling yew gentlemen?" he enquired pleasantly. The men started and one of them said, "Uh, nothing…we're going…"

"Oh, sure, we're going," the other agreed and rushed at Wilbur with a knife.

With one powerful, unthinkably swift movement, Wilbur Whateley swept the man aside with his arm, leaving the murderous thief bruised and shaken. In less than a second, he and his friend were stumbling through the fog away from the giant stranger.

Lucy stared for a moment at Wilbur with a look half of fear and also of gratitude. Then she rushed to him, embracing him and thanking him tearfully for what he had done. And as he felt her clinging to him and as she lifted her eyes, bright with tears, he felt more differently than he had ever felt before and on an impulse that seemed strange even to him, he kissed her.


	17. A New Ally

**Episode Seventeen: A New Ally**

Wilbur Whateley was very much bewildered when he found himself an hour later sitting by the edge of the Miskatonic with Lucy drowsing beside him, her head upon his lap. It was a most uncomfortable position that he was in, as he feared that if he made the slightest move, she would suspect that she was resting upon something other than a normal human lap. Thus, he kept his other-dimensional parts as still as possible and – having nothing better to do – began reading _The King in Yellow_ silently, since he still had it under his shoulder. It was, sadly, not quite as absorbing a book as his old copy of John Dee's _Necronomicon _which he happened to also have in his pocket.

He pulled this latter out and as he did so, Lucy murmured, "What are you reading, Wilbur darling?"

"Just a sartain book I had with me," Wilbur said evasively in that curious New England accent that he possessed.

"Could you read some of it to me?" Lucy asked, turning her face so as to look into his eyes.

Wilbur Whateley wasn't sure how good an idea that was, but her eyes were so soft and imploring that he decided that it wouldn't hurt to find a safe and suitably bewildering passage in the book. Clearing his throat, he began, "The nethermost caverns are not for the fathoming of the eyes that see; for their marvels are strange and terrific. Cursed the ground where dead thoughts live new and oddly bodied, and evil the mind that is held by no head. Wisely did Ibn Schacabao say, that happy is the tomb where no wizard hath lain, and happy the town at night whose wizards are all ashes. For it is of old rumour that the soul of the devil-bought hastes not from his charnel clay, but fats and instructs _the very worm that gnaws; _till out of corruption horrid life springs, and the dull scavengers of earth wax crafty to vex it and swell monstrous to plague it. Great holes secretly are digged where earth's pores ought to suffice, and things have learnt to walk that ought to crawl."

He paused and, happening to look up, saw Dr. Crane and Harley Warren standing a few yards away at the edge of the clearing; Dr. Crane's expression was one of shock and Warren's was one of bemused amusement.

Wilbur Whateley was so startled by their sudden appearance that he stood up hastily (to the great discomfort of Lucy) and abruptly closed the _Necronomicon. _

"Why, Wilbur, what's wrong?" Lucy asked, rubbing her head. "You were reading it beautifully." Then she caught sight of Warren and Crane and paused, blushing.

"I calc'late that I've been spendin' a bit too long a time here," Wilbur Whateley said, a bit tersely due to the embarrassing nature of the situation. "Ah'll come abaout the Orne Library mayhaps sometime tomorraw." And before she could protest, he shuffled away with Dr. Crane and Warren at a brisk pace, leaving her glowering and wondering what in the heck was wrong with him.

* * *

"What were you thinking, going off with that girl at a time like this?" Dr. Crane hissed once they got back in the car and were driving down an Arkham road in no particular direction.

"Wal what were yew a-thinkin' when ye went gallivantin' abaout Meadow Hill with aour prisoner?" Wilbur retorted sullenly.

"I didn't have much of a choice in the matter," Dr. Crane returned. "You had disappeared for more than an hour and Warren assured me that he would not attempt an escape as he wants to tell us both something. I had to trust him since I was afraid that something serious had happened. Little did I know that – "

"Never mind that," Wilbur grimaced. "We need ter think o' the business at hand – and what's tew be done abaout this Warren. Now, yew there," he said gruffly to the aforementioned Warren. "What was et that yew wanted tew tell us?"

"I think that we're working at cross purposes, that's all," Warren replied in his customarily mild manner. "You assume, for example, that simply because I know exactly what you and Dr. Crane intend to do with _The King in Yellow_, that I intend to oppose it."

"Well, don't you?" Dr. Crane returned. "After all, you're a friend of that lout Bruce Wayne."

"Acquaintance," Warren amended with a gentle smile. "Now, Mr. Whateley, you're a reasonable man. I believe that you understand that given the amount of power _both of us _possess, it is in neither of our interests to engage in any sort of confrontation."

Wilbur's brow furrowed as he remembered how Warren had uttered that potent word which had rendered his spell impotent in Episode Fifteen of this chronicle. "That's trew," he admitted. "But haow, might I ask, dew yew intend tew help us?" Once again, his suspicions regarding Warren's connections to the antehuman sorcerer Haon-Dor were aroused once more. If these suspicions were true, then Warren would be a powerful enemy – or ally – indeed.

In reply to Whateley's question, Warren responded, "I know that you intend to resurrect your brother and bring him back to our world. You told me as much in the Orne Library. I also know that while both you and Dr. Crane are somewhat shady characters in the eyes of the law, I am – as yet, anyhow! – untouched by any sort of suspicions."

"That's true…" Wilbur said slowly and before he could get a word in edgewise, Warren continued:

"So as you can see, it is after all in your best interests to have someone like me along for that reason alone. But a graver point remains: namely, that if you intend to engage the help of Hastur – as your use of _The King in Yellow _suggests – then you will have to be prepared to make use of the proper rites and methods of appeasement suitable to such an entity. Otherwise, the consequences could be extremely unpleasant."

"And yer sayin' that yew knoaw of these 'prawper methods of appeasement?'" Wilbur said suspiciously.

Warren nodded silently.

Dr. Crane's face was mask-like, but there was nothing hiding the venom in his voice as he said, "I have a feeling that we shouldn't trust you, Mr. Warren. You're altogether too clever for your own good and our plans won't truly be safe unless you're out of the way – permanently."

"Daon't be so hasty," Wilbur said after a moment's thought. "I parsonally think that what aour friend here says is true. Who kin tell what sort o' paowerful wrath that Hastur the Unnamable will git himself up tew – ah've thaought o' that m'self fer a tyme."

"You've _thought_," Dr. Crane spat. "If you decide to accept this man as an ally, you are endangering our plans."

"Shut yer maouth," Wilbur Whateley said curtly with an air of grim finality. "Or I'll shut et fer yew. What would a pulin' doctor knoaw of matters concernin' the Old Ones, eh?"

A tense silence descended over the car.

After a minute Warren said, in an almost apologetic tone, "Mr. Whateley, I believe that it would be best, now that we have _The King in Yellow_, to go back to Dunwich now. There are certain rounded hills there – which I believe you know – that we must visit to prepare for the things we must see and do."

_Author's Note: Thank you, Guess Who and Not Human, for your kind reviews. Also, thank you, Guess Who, for giving me the idea to introduce Wilbur Whateley's brother into this tale -- I only hope that once he appears, my poor writing style will be adequate for the job. I also hope that in the future I shall see more suspenseful adventures with Dr. Crane from Not Human and more tales of Warren, Whateley, and Pickman from Guess Who. Thank you for keeping up with story, my friends, and a Happy New Year to you all._


	18. An Abandoned Shack

**Episode Eighteen: The Abandoned Shack**

_Author's Note: This chapter is especially for GuessWho who only recently completed a wonderful Lovecraftian story of her own which I enjoyed immensely -- and also, it's dedicated to my good friend NotHuman whom I do hope to be seeing more chapters from soon! I hope you enjoy this latest installment, my friends._

Officer O'Hara drew on his cigar for a few minutes and then said, "Yeah, I've seen a car answering to that description. It was on a highway bound out of Arkham, though I can't say where it was headed. Why are you curious?"

"Nothing important," Bruce Wayne told him as he headed back to his car where Randolph Carter, Dr. Armitage, and Alfred were waiting. He climbed inside and told them the news, finishing up by saying, "So this leaves us with the question of where in the world they might want to go now that they have that book that they've been searching for."

Dr. Armitage thought for a moment, his brow furrowed with worry. "Dunwich," he suddenly said, his voice firm with certainty. "I'm sure that's where Whateley is heading. His goal at first was to bring his father into our world. Well, several years ago, after I believed that Wilbur was dead, I managed to send his brother back using several rites that I found in the _Necronomicon _for that purpose. I am certain that Wilbur intends to bring him back."

"His brother or his father?" Bruce asked.

"His brother," Armitage replied. "He's interested in revenge now more than a total subjugation of the world. With his brother's help, he believes that he can have his revenge on those individuals – probably myself, Professor Rice, and the others at Miskatonic – who aided his downfall."

"Wouldn't it be better," Alfred put in. "If you stayed in Arkham? If that is the case, you would be in more danger if you were with us in Dunwich."

The elderly professor shook his head. "Dunwich is where he'll be least expecting me to be," he replied with questionable grammar. "As far as I know, he doesn't even know that I know he's alive and that's the way I'd like to keep it. Once we get to Dunwich, I'll wire Professor Rice and let him know what's going on."

"We're going to Dunwich, then?" Carter shuddered visibly.

"We've got to," Bruce said, turning the car onto the state highway that led from Arkham towards the west.

"I wonder," Carter muttered. "Whether Warren really was captured…"

"What do you mean by that?" Armitage asked sharply.

"Well, Warren has always had an interest in bizzarities," Carter replied cautiously. "I've shared his studies for awhile, but he's never let me in on the true nature of his interests in the occult. I can't help but wonder whether that interest might have led him to another side in this battle other than ours."

"Impossible!" Alfred said. "A more gentle, courteous, and honourable man I never saw! We must do all we can in our power to save him from that Mr. Whateley, isn't that so, Mr. Wayne?"

"Alfred's right," Bruce said grimly. "In a way, Warren's started this wild goose chase and we have to follow through with it to the end, for the sake of him and – possibly – for the whole world."

* * *

Whilst this conversation was transpiring, another and different sort of happening was taking place in the ruins of a ramshackle little house in Dunwich. The place's roof had fallen apart in several places and what was left was the bare skeleton of a home.

"This ewsed tew be my haome," Wilbur Whateley said. There was deep regret in his dark otherworldly eyes as he spoke and his two companions were silent as he searched the remains of the shack for whatever familiar odds and ends from his childhood might have survived.

Warren spoke first and his tone was one of quiet sympathy. "What happened here?"

Wilbur shrugged. "I reckin' my braother accidentally knaocked the place doawn when he was aout on his rampages and then some o' the Dunwich folk decided tew burn the place to smithereens 'n finish the job." He added darkly, "Armitage and the Arkham folk'll pay for thes, I promise ye."

Warren saw that amongst the wreckage and ashes that lay scattered on the forest floor, that there were the battered remains of a tricycle – unusually big for a child – and the torn, mouldy pages out of fairy-tale picture books.

Wilbur, following Warren's gaze, said, "My grandfather used'ter git me books when he'd go tew taown. He built me thet tricycle himself aout o' spare parts since none o' the reg'lar ones were big enough fer me."

Dr. Crane pointed to the rounded hills that framed the grey, tempestuous horizon towards the east. "Are those natural or man-made?" he asked. "They're such an odd shape!"

It was true; there was a queer roundness to their peaks that seemed unnatural and made them appear as the coils of a slumbering serpent.

"Neither," Warren replied. "There once was a city where those hills are now. It was built by an antehuman sorcerer named Haon-Dor who lived during the prehistoric days of Hyperborea." Seeing Dr. Crane's confusion, he added, "I only know of this from studying the _Liber Ivonis_ in the Orne Library. Do you know about it?"

Wilbur Whateley nodded, watching him closely. "What is et ye knoaw abaout Haon-Dor?"

"Not all that much," Warren replied. "Save that he was an ancient sorcerer who dwelt underneath the ground."

"I'm aonly askin'," Wilbur continued. "Because I have a suspicion thet ye knoaw somethin' of his arts."

Warren returned his searching look with one of cold calm. "Well, what of it?" he replied. "Surely, this Haon-Dor didn't possess power greater than yours, did he?"

There was a definite mockery in his voice now and Wilbur was not ignorant of it. However, he said, "Wal they's nothin' we kin find here. Let's go tew those hills and see what's left o' the standin' stones that used ter be there. Unless…" he added nastily. "Thet damned fool Armitage tore 'em all daown!"


	19. The Cursed Hills

Episode Nineteen: The Cursed Hills

_A small note from the author: This episode is once again dedicated to GuesssWho, without whose encouragement I would not even be taking up this story again! I do hope that you enjoy this episode and shall try to write more as soon as I can. In the meantime, I earnestly suggest to any others reading this sorry tale that you take a look at some of Not Human and GuesssWho's fiction, for it is some of the best you will find on this site. That said, on with the long-awaited next installment!_

_When a traveller in north central Massachusetts takes the wrong fork at the junction of Aylesbury pike just beyond Dean's Corners he comes upon a lonely and curious country. – from H.P. Lovecraft's "The Dunwich Horror"_

Now indeed do we reach the part of my narrative wherein I almost shudder to continue. Hithertofore, the blasphemies and dire abominations extant within this chronicle have been but affrightedly hinted at: now, however, the malign must be brought to light and that which ought to be mercifully hidden from the eyes of man and the open Earth must be exhumed. I pray that my readers may forgive whatever horrible revelations these pages may bring to them based upon their own experiences and, indeed, if you have been unfortunate enough to be privy to any sort of contact with the Elder Ones or those even further beyond, I heartily recommend that you cease all perusal of this manuscript. Some things are not meant for mortals to dwell overlong upon. But for those of you who are intrepid enough to continue, I shall resume my accursed narrative once more:

"Here we are," Dr. Armitage murmured quietly, adjusting his spectacles more comfortably atop the bridge of his nose and peering out at the landscape which he had beheld so many years ago – and under circumstances no less hideously sinister.

Bruce Wayne, who had been slumbering throughout most of the trip from Arkham to Dunwich on Alfred's shoulder, started violently and gazed out the passenger window at his side upon the lonely, untenanted wilderness which surrounded them. Indeed, save for a few isolated and often seemingly abandoned farmhouses, the entire countryside looked more like a stretch of bare land rather than a village.

"This is Dunwich?" Bruce asked incredulously.

"Yes," Randolph Carter replied from the driver's seat, his face pale as he gazed out upon the domed hills rising against the darkening horizon. "Dr. Armitage, where is it that you plan on having us spend the night?"

Dr. Armitage thought for a moment. "Earl Sawyer's a good sort. He lives close by Cold Spring Glen. I tended his wife's gangrenous leg several years ago and he's always been very pleasant to me as a result. In the meantime, however, we _must _go to those hills – " he pointed towards the horizon. "—and we must do some exploring. If we wait until tomorrow, I fear that by then we will have missed our chance."

"You still haven't fully explained what you hope to find there," Carter remarked, a trifle anxiously.

"For the simple reason that I fear that Mr. Wayne would think me mad if I did so," Dr. Armitage replied. "And I fear that you, Carter, given what you understand already about the Old Ones, would lose all of the intrepid vigor that you possess. All I shall say is that I believe that we shall have a great – or at least a greater – chance of coming across Wilbur there."

They drove the rest of the way towards the mountains in silence. Bruce Wayne began to wonder why it had fallen on Carter to be the driver: the man drove as slow as a matronly nonagenarian and clutched the steering wheel as though he were half-afraid it would fall off. It was a good extra fifteen minutes before they reached the edge of those forested mountains, the tops of which were crowned with queerly-angled standing stones which somehow sent a chill of trepidation even through the stout, rather prosaic heart of Bruce Wayne.

"Have you, by any chance, ever read Arthur Machen?" Dr. Armitage asked suddenly.

"No," Bruce replied.

"Ah, yes: good. Then up with you to those standing stones and see if there's anything worthy of note to be seen."

Bruce was flabbergasted at Armitage's strangely-phrased request but obeyed, climbing up the sloping mountain and finally standing in the centre of that circle of stones. A wind, cold and smelling of the clamminess of twilit marshes, seemed to brush past him and he pulled his coat more closely about him. However, save for his general feeling of unease, there seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary about the place. He reported as much to the professor.

Armitage's face shadowed with disappointment for a moment, but then of a sudden, a singular thing occurred. Underneath their feet, as though the earth had been seized by some violent form of epilepsy, the ground began to tremble and even above the whistling of the wind and the mourning of the whippoorwills, they could hear the distinct pulse of the steady, throbbing beat of a drum.

Armitage's face went very white.

"Back in the car," he said hoarsely. "We've got to move fast – for after tonight, there will be no time for either us or the rest of the world any longer."

Bewildered, Bruce followed the professor, Carter, and Alfred into the car. As the car sped off, however, he could not help but wonder why it was that he had felt so sure for a moment that the drumbeats were coming from somewhere underneath their feet…

Meanwhile, let us turn our attentions to Whateley and his two companions:

"Where are we?" Dr. Crane gazed up at the vaulted, stone ceiling of the underground chamber which he, Wilbur Whateley, and Warren had just entered, emerging from what had seemed an interminable, labyrinthine tangle of shadowed corridors.

"Wal, I reckon thet we're still underneath the maountain," Whateley replied with his usual taciturn sort of humor.

"And what are we doing here precisely?" Crane enquired coldly.

"Indeed this must be the hidden, centuried palace of Haon-Dor," Warren murmured, his eyes glittering with lustful ardor upon the crumbling piles of arcane tomes scattered upon the limestone floor. "If any place is suited towards our preparations for tonight, this is certainly it."

Whateley nodded; he was beginning to admire more and more the uncanny combination of good-humored implacability and occult prowess which Harley Warren consistently exhibited. More importantly, he realized that the occultist's knowledge of the black arts would prove to be more than valuable in the next several hours. As these thoughts ran through his mind, he made his decision.

"The whole o' the magickal performin' I'll leave to yew," he said. "Yew knaow what ye'll dew and haow to dew it?"

Warren assented with a slight nod. "We shall begin by bringing your brother's soul to life," he said softly as though in private thought. "Then tonight, we shall summon him forth."

"And," Wilbur put in. "After he's been summoned, aour Father'll be called daown next."

Warren gazed at him, pale-lipped. "You mean to have Yog-Sothoth summoned tonight as well?"

Whateley nodded. "We'll laeve the clearin' aout of the Earth to him – he'll dew it much faster, fer one thing." He paused and then added, watching the occultist closely, "Does the idea affright ye?"

"No," Warren replied and there was a strange wistfulness in his voice. "I suppose that I have given myself so wholly to the study of the forbidden, that in a way I have forfeited whatever humanity I may have once possessed. No, I do not fear your Otherness. I almost welcome it." He turned his gaze towards a row of prehistoric drums leaning against the far wall. "I suppose we shall need those pretty soon. Do you think that you could manage them during the rite?"

"Jest so long as I dun't hef to dew one o' them jazz numbers on 'em," Whateley replied.

_A Glance at the Upcoming Chapter: In which a blasphemous necromantic rite is performed by Harley Warren; in which the elder powers of both Hastur the Unspeakable and the Yellow Sign are invoked; and in which Dr. Armitage develops a migraine headache. _


End file.
